


Unconditional

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Blackmail, Breaking and Entering, Bubble Bath, Canonical Character Death, Disguise, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Pet Names, rework Agatha from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 14:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3329912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite John's injuries, he and Sherlock have to move against Milverton, and do it now. They have allies, if they can be trusted. They have disguises and a plan. What they may not have is luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will add tags as I add chapters, to avoid spoilers for those reading as I post.
> 
> Please allow for any geographical errors I make. There's only so much Google can tell me, so the rest I made up.

As Sherlock and John left Baker Street early on Sunday morning, Mrs Hudson came out in her dressing gown and a white clay face mask. Sherlock, carrying two large overnight bags, told her that John needed an immediate break from London to recover from his ordeal and that they would be in Canterbury for a day or two.

“I might take John to Whitsable for the afternoon,” said Sherlock.

“Oh, a lovely idea,” said Mrs Hudson, “The sea air will do him a world of good.”

John, hands bandaged, looking unwell and irritated about it, clenched his teeth at the way they talked about him like he wasn’t actually there, and pointedly did not discuss how little he liked sand.

“Take care of him, dear,” Mrs Hudson said to Sherlock, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes. Then Mrs Hudson, through her clay mask, dabbed a little (slightly crusty) kiss on John’s cheek. “And do rest up and _let_ him, won’t you, John?”

Mrs Hudson knew him entirely too well, sometimes. “I will,” he promised.

Out in the street, John waited on the footpath with the luggage while Sherlock strode around the corner to collect the Zipcar he’d booked. He came back in the little hire vehicle then loaded up the luggage while John continued to crankily wait – unable to even open the car door through the bandages. That done, Sherlock held the door for his husband and buckled up the seatbelt for him.

It took ninety minutes to drive to Canterbury. John dozed most of the way.

*

On arrival, John and Sherlock, with one of the two bags, checked into the boutique luxury hotel that Sherlock had booked the night before. They made much of their intentions drive to Whitstable for the sea air, though the collection of South Indian Arms and Armour at the Beaney House of Art and Knowledge held appeal for both men, and Sherlock wanted to see the rather macabre monuments of Henry Chichele and Charles Fotherby at the Cathedral. John, he said, could advise him whether the latter really did depict all the bones of the human body.

Or, Sherlock added, moving to place a solicitous arm around his cranky husband, they could just stay in their room and rest, if John was tired from the trip. “And how are your hands?”

“Sore,” grumped John, brandishing the bandaged things with a demeanour both irritated and pathetic, but he sighed and allowed that it was nice to be out of London and Whitsable would probably be charming, though Sherlock would have to hand-feed him the goddamned chips.

“Then I will hand-feed you the goddamned chips,” agreed Sherlock with gentle affection, there in the foyer, while the proprietor smiled upon them with a sympathetic and indulgent eye.

John sighed and leaned into Sherlock’s side. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

The proprietor thought they were rather adorable, and she decided to put champagne and chocolates in their room for later while they were at Whitstable.

Once checked in, John and Sherlock went into their lovely room and prepared for their outing.

Sherlock helped John to remove the bulky bandaging from both hands and, with John’s close guidance, to administer local anaesthetic around the sites of the burns on the right and the fingers of the left, and a tiny jab at the burn on his throat. Sherlock carefully pulled a glove, two sizes too large, over the bulky splints on the left. John couldn’t bend the fingers of that hand anyway, but the bandages had to be concealed. On the right, Sherlock placed a slightly snugger glove over the burn dressings.

John flexed his hands, testing. He tested the weight of his gun in the right too, ensuring he could get his gloved finger through the trigger guard and that the pressure of the gun handle wouldn’t cause too much discomfort and throw off his aim. Happy with the result, he packed gun, a second dose of anaesthetic for later, and two balaclavas into a day pack. The other bag of necessary items was still in the car.

They left, John with his gloved hands concealed in his coat pockets, Sherlock with an arm protectively around his back.

They walked around Canterbury a little first; shopping, speaking to a few people. They bought some snacks for the journey to Whitstable, talking about their plans to lunch by the sea. John kept his hands in his pockets. Sherlock often asked him if he was all right, and whether he needed another painkiller for his poor hands.

Then they got in the Zipcar and headed towards Whitstable: a twenty minute drive.

A very short while later, at Tyler Hill, they pulled over at the edge of Honey Wood, where they met two men and a woman in a white van. They swapped coats with the two men, who were dressed in clothes identical to those worn by Sherlock and John. The tall one also wore a dark, curly wig; the short one had cropped blond hair and his hands were heavily bandaged.

The tall one took the keys to the Zipcar. “I won’t canoodle wiv Mag the Rag, though,” he said in an untutored accent, “Ain’t enough dosh in the world to make that possible. He ain’t bathed nor brushed ‘is teeth since 2008.”

“Neither have you, Billy,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I done top and tailed in the fountain jus’ last week,” protested Billy, but he was grinning.

“Just keep your heads down. Go to the beach. Don’t let Mag handle anything. Feed him some chips at the beach. Here.” He tucked a fold of cash into Billy’s hand.

“Right you are,” called out Mag the Rag from the passenger seat, “I got me a hat and all.” He used his bandaged hands to tug a flat cap over his hair and hunkered down into the coat. He giggled. “I reckon having Billy hand feed me chips like I’m a bleedin’ royal corgi is almost payment enough.”

Sherlock sighed. “Don’t make a hash of it, you two. We’re depending on you.”

Billy nodded solemnly. “We got your backs, Sherly. Doc. Ain’t we, Mag?” He and Mag had been part of Sherlock’s network for many years. They’d done this gig before and they knew their business. They’d make sure they were seen by just enough witnesses, and just a few cameras, Mag showing off the bandaged hands from time to time, Billy striding around like cock o’ the walk for a bit, but just the right amount of lunchtime, chip-feeding soppy. Nobody would ever know the Guv and his Doc had been anywhere but Whitstable for the day.

Billy and Mag drove off. Sherlock and John got into the back of the van that had been so patiently waiting for them.

Janine Nevin, dressed in soiled overalls and a dark wig, gave them both a raking glance that assessed and did not approve.

“If you pair feck this up,” she said, “I’ll fecking kill you. Just so you know.”

“If we fail,” said Sherlock, “Milverton will no doubt get to us long before you will.”

Janine nodded thoughtfully at the truth of that. “Off we go then.” And she put the van into gear and drove back onto St Stephen’s Road, heading for the A2 and Dover.

Janine drove at a sedate, don't-notice-me speed to Dover. By the time they arrived, Sherlock and John were different. Sherlock had become Davey Spratt in soil-stained overalls and a cap. He had also carefully helped John with a curly auburn wig, artful stubble and a set of fake, discoloured teeth. He was dressed in bulky trousers and thick-knit sea-green jumper and looked like a fisherman.

They pulled in next to a smart little green Fiat in a small parking area at a pub two streets behind York Street at the marina end.

In the pub, Janine led her scruffy companions through a moderate crowd of equally scruffy labourers, fishing folk and old-time regulars to a snug at the back of the bar. She slid into the seat beside Agnieszka Raczek, who was in a simple green dress over black leggings and, underneath the table, squeezed her hand.

"Hello my darlin'," she murmured.

"Janka," Agnieszka murmured the Polish diminutive in return. The momentary softness in her eyes hardened as she turned to the two men. Sherlock simply nodded, and she nodded sharply back. Then she cast an appraising glance over John. Her smirk was equal parts mockery and amusement. John met her assessment without flinching. In another life she may have been his type – full-breasted, and full of sass and challenge too. Now he simply gave her a raised eyebrow and noted how her gaze took in every element of their surroundings.

Agnieszka rose to get to the loo while the others poured beers from the jug on the table. Nobody drank. A little while later, Janine left the table too.

A few minutes after, Sherlock watched Janine, now in Agnieszka’ green dress, leggings and shoes (bra padded with foam) and a blonde wig left the pub. Shortly afterwards, he caught a glimpse of the Fiat as it left the premises.

Agnieszka returned dressed in the dark wig, overalls and cap. "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded.

John pushed back from the table. "Let's get this bastard."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock and Agnieszka gain entry to Milverton's house. Sherlock thinks he knows where to find the evidence Milverton holds on his victims. But Sherlock has made a very, very big mistake.

Charles Augustus Milverton did not like or trust people. Of necessity he had security at Appledore, but most of it was electronic. Milverton was in London, and therefore had his personal bodyguard with him there. At the mansion, two men working singly in shifts ensured the house and grounds remained under surveillance. Milverton wasn’t really concerned about trespassers, though. Even should someone breach the grounds and the house, he knew the documents would be safe.

*

The white van pulled up to the gate of Appledore. Davey Spratt, apparently the lone occupant, jabbed at the intercom.

“State your name and business,” came the disembodied voice.

“Afternoon, Tel. Davey Spratt here.” He pronounced his ‘r’s more emphatically and his vowels altered subtly, lending a gentle Cornish lilt to his words.

“Mr Spratt,” said the disembodied Tel, “What brings you here on your day off?”

“I left my phone in the kitchen like a daft pillock, din’t I?”

“You know I’m not supposed to let anyone through the gate unless they’re expected. You should have called.”

“Yar, but you know, _I left my phone in the boss’s kitchen_ Tel.”

Tel laughed. “Too busy goggling at that big tittied cook, eh?”

“’Ere, bit o’ respect,” Davey Spratt admonished mildly, though the effect was diminished by the appreciative laugh. “She turns out a good oggie, that woman, and a saffron bun like mother made.”

“Yeah, she gives you special treatment.”

“It’s me big brown eyes, Tel old son, and the fact that I appreciate her cookin’. Not like that turnip upstairs.”

“Here, don’t let Mr Milverton hear you talk like that.”

“Mr Milverton ain’t home, is he?” Spratt asked, alarmed, “I know he’d make me wait till bloody Monday, only Aggie said I could call her and we might walk out a bit in Dover. See a picture or have tea. And her bloody number is in the bloody phone. In her bloody kitchen.”

Tel laughed again. “Nah, Mr M’s still in London, so you’re safe. And I think I can see your phone on the table there. Right-o then, Davey. Never let it be said I got in the way of a man past his prime getting a leg over.”

In the van, Sherlock rolled his eyes and clenched his teeth on an irritated sigh. John had expected Agnieszka to look furious, but she had a sardonic grin on instead. She waggled her eyebrows at John, though the deadly shine in her eyes easily conveyed her contempt for the man.

“You’re a champ, Tel. I’ll bring me van up, yeah? Won’t be but a tick, I’m sure.”

“Take your time. See if she left some of those little lemon pies in the downstairs fridge. I could use something with my cuppa.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Davey Spratt promised, and then the gate buzzed, clicked and swung open. John and Agnieszka hunkered down further in the rear of the van and Sherlock drove up to the mansion, around the drive, up to the kitchen garden and the back entry.

Sherlock emerged first. He opened the kitchen door – remotely unlocked and left accessible by irritating yet very helpful Tel - and left it ajar.

In the kitchen, his back to the kitchen camera, he swiftly attached the device Agnieszka had given him to the alarm system by the door and pressed a button. Davey’s phone – as opposed to Sherlock’s – rang from its half-concealed position by the fruit bowl, where he’d left it.

Sherlock picked it up.

“Here, Davey, we’ve got some problem in the system there. What you doin’?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock casually, while John and Agnieszka darted into the kitchen, out of view of the watching cameras for six vital seconds, and then into the unmonitored walk-in pantry. “Just checking me messages. Aggy’s left me all these texts saying she can’t make it after all.”

“Bitch,” said Tel.

“Yeah,” sighed Sherlock, “Or maybe she’s really sick, like she says. She looked a bit peaky yesterday, to tell the truth.”

“Oh no, wait, system’s back up again. Must have been a power glitch.”

Sherlock was pocketing the device once more.

“Don’t ask me Tel, I can do shrubberies and reticulation. I’m not much chop on fancy pants burglar alarms.”

“It’s not a… never mind. You’ve got your phone now, you’d better push off.”

“You want that lemon pie?” Sherlock opened the fridge, knowing that Tel could see him on the monitor. “Oh, and she’s got a nice bit of roast beef here too, if you need a sandwich. I can make you up one, if you like. Not like I’ve got anything to rush back for.”

There was a palpable hesitation on the line, and then, “Fuck it, Davey, why not? It’s just me in the watch booth today and I’m bored stupid. Bring up a sandwich and a lemon pie and I’ll make a picnic of it, yeah?”

“My pleasure, Tel.”

Sherlock put the beef on the table, then wandered into the pantry with one lemon pie on a plate while he ate another. Inside the crowded pantry, he waited until Agnieszka had finished stirring a substance into the horseradish. She also injected a lemon pie with a syringe of _botulism du jour_. Not fatal doses by any measure.

“That’ll give him cramps and the squits inside ten minutes,” she said with a grin.

Sherlock looked to John, who nodded. Agnieszka pulled a face at the pair of them. “I’m a professional,” she snipped, “I know that killing him screws up the plan.”

Davey Spratt left the pantry, made up the sandwich with plenty of horseradish, then took the meal through the house, out the side door and to the little cabin to one side of the mansion. He handed the picnic through the security partition and when Tel gave him two thumbs up, returned the gesture.

*

While Sherlock was gone, Agnieszka and John, stuck in the cramped pantry for now, held a whispered conversation.

“This had better work,” hissed Agnieszka, “Or we’re all dead.”

“It’ll work,” said John with utter conviction.

“How are you going to kill him?”

“We’re not.”

Her body stiffened dangerously beside him. “Then what…?”

“We’ll get the evidence he’s holding,” said John.

“If it’s where Sherlock thinks it is.”

“It is,” John asserted, “And then he’ll be toothless.”

“But not harmless,” she snarled.

“He will be,” said John, “Once we have what we need, others can act. Not you,” he added when he felt her move at his side. “We’ve got someone waiting.”

Mycroft Holmes, after all, was held back from acting primarily because of the material Milverton held on him. Once he and Sherlock had retrieved and destroyed whatever evidence there was of that, Mycroft would be free to act. John wasn’t sure what that meant for Milverton, but he very much hoped it was deeply unpleasant.

Agnieszka exhaled and made herself relax again. “We’re relying on you,” she said, her tone betraying the slight hint of the desperation she felt. “Don’t you let us down.”

“We won’t,” John promised her.

Then they fell silent again, and waited.

*

Davey stayed to chat a little, until Tel had polished off the sandwich and was starting the lemon pie.

“Thanks for the tips, Tel. I haven’t stepped out with a lady in a while.”

“My pleasure, mate. Good luck getting your end away.”

“If she says yes to next Sunday, any rate. I’ll be off then. Cheers, Tel.”

“Cheers, Davey.” Tel nodded farewell. Already his brow was creasing with the harbinger of discomfort.

Sherlock strode back through the house and in the kitchen, where he put sandwich ingredients away in the fridge – taking and eating another lemon pie in view of the monitor – then stepped into the pantry to put the jar of horseradish away.

He stayed in there while Agnieszka pulled her flat cap low over her dark wig and walked out, mimicking Sherlock’s purposeful, masculine stride. She walked out the door, into the van, and drove off.

John and Sherlock waited in the pantry for several minutes, until Sherlock’s phone – as opposed to Davey’s – buzzed in his pocket.

The message read:

_Am out. Tel’s dose kicked in as I_   
_left. You have 3-4 mins. See_   
_you at rendezvous_

Sherlock led the way through the unlit house on sure, fast feet, John close behind, until they reached Milverton’s office. Sherlock attached the disruption device to the security panel beside the door and pressed the button. Then he peered at the panel and tapped in the code he had already cracked. There was a click. Sherlock pushed the door open, took the device from the panel and they went in, closing the door softly behind them.

Inside, Sherlock swiftly reattached the device to the security control panel on Milverton’s desk and reactivated it. Its magnetic pulses began to disrupt signals again before the system had recovered from the previous interference.

Milverton’s office was on the eastern side of the mansion, overlooking the sea. Its Georgian origins were emphasised with the large oak desk, the vintage drapes on the windows, now pulled back to give a clear view of the gates and the drive. The French doors that led to a terrace were also uncovered, and locked. Beyond them was a colonnade of topiary bushes on each side of the terrace leading to a balustrade – all that stood between the terrace and the drop to the rocks and the English Channel.

Opposite the French doors was a smooth, curved wall, ruthlessly modern within the Georgian setting. Sherlock’s gloved fingers danced over the number bad and the inset door slid aside.

The inner room, as Sherlock had mentioned, was mostly bare, except for a large black leather armchair and a few pictures on the wall. While John stood guard, gun drawn, Sherlock pulled the chair away, threw back the rug beneath it and lifted up the trapdoor. It was clear from the mechanism that it could not opened from beneath, but only above. Several steps led down to a further trapdoor, leaving a small and useless chamber in between.

Sherlock descended the first few stairs, turned and began running his fingertips along the joins of the stairs. Finally, something clicked and with a huff of triumph, he pulled the top of the second stair up as though it were a lid.

The cavity under the lid was full of documents. Parchments. Envelopes of negatives and boxes of memory sticks. This, said Sherlock’s shining grin at John, was obviously where Milverton would conceal such things. Beneath the chair on which he sat to contemplate his power. In the room where he no doubt met sellers of information and supplicants for mercy who handed over their lives in small, unmarked bills. After they had walked right over the hollow stair that held all their fates. Right in the centre of the spider’s nest.

Sherlock pulled a folded silk bag from a pocket and filled it up swiftly, flicking glances at items as they went away. As he found negatives, Sherlock held them up to the light briefly, until he found the one he wanted, with a snort of disgust. That one he stuffed into his pocket. He found a memory stick, too, with the initials AGRA drawn on the side. He put that in the pocket with the negative.

When the cavity was empty, Sherlock tested the other steps, but they were all normal stairs. Only the second had been a hiding place. He frowned. “It’s not all here.”

“What?” John looked sharply back at him.

“There is no material relating to Mycroft. There are others I’ve spoken to, as well, and there are no documents pertaining to them. Material is missing.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain John,” snapped Sherlock, rifling in the bag of documents anyway. But there was no way he would have missed anything that would harm Mycroft, let alone the other frightened people he’d manage to convince to confide in him.

“Fuck. Right. Where else would he hide stuff in here. Behind the pictures? Inside them, in the frames?”

“No. No, that’s not it. I’m missing something…” Then he glanced at his watch, scowled, and stepped out of the stairwell. He closed the trapdoor, arranged the rug perfectly over the spot and returned the armchair to its correct position.

“I’m missing something,” he snarled under his breath as he paced, “Something obvious. Something… oh.” He stopped suddenly and his face drained of colour. “Oh John. I’ve been stupendously dull. I have made such a terrible mistake.”

John’s brows drew down with concern. “What?”

“He kept everything in this room. Everything. In the stairs under the chair. But he doesn’t need hard evidence for everything. All he needs, sometimes, is to know a thing. To know what was done and who to tell. Aggie, for example. If her enemies know where to find her, evidence is hardly necessary. They’ll come for her.”

“But you found that flash drive.”

“Yes. But she is not the only person who is in that situation. Mycroft’s career can be ruined with a rumour that can be only substantiated if the facts become known, documentation or no. Oh my god, John, I’ve been so stupid.” He drew a deep breath and the look he gave John was one of despair. “Milverton keeps that kind of information in a mind palace.”

“In a…” John’s eyebrows rose. “Christ. But we need to…”

“Destroy the evidence, yes. Destroy it all so he has nothing left to use. Destroy it so he has no weapons when his enemies come to bring him down.”

“Which means…”

“Yes.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other with the terrible knowledge dawning, and then John’s grip tightened on his gun. “We’ll make him see reason.”

“He isn’t a reasonable man, John.”

“We’ll see how reasonable he is with my Sig Sauer in his face,” snarled John, “He’s not touching you again.”

Sherlock shook his head. Shooting the cabbie could be justified, perhaps, and the death of that bastard Eastmund wasn’t directly John’s doing. But this thing they were thinking – that was murder and no mistake. Not self defence. Not exactly.

And Sherlock didn’t want John to be a murderer. John didn’t want it either, he could see that. But they needed to think of something else, and fast.

John had turned to look around the main office, clearly hoping against hope that they’d find the rest of the evidence in there somewhere, but Sherlock as Davey Spratt had already searched this room. There was nothing except the French doors out onto a terrace overlooking the drop down to the sea.

“We need to leave now, John.”

And that’s when, through the bay window of the darkened office, John saw the lights coming up the drive.

And it’s when Sherlock heard a faint sound far below the second trapdoor. A scrape and a faded, muffled curse at the darkness.

John’s grip tightened around the gun and he hardly winced at the pain, with the adrenalin coursing through his system.

From the unlit office, they saw the car pull up in the drive at the front door, and they saw Charles Augustus Milverton get out.

No more time.

Sherlock darted past John and picked the lock on the doors to the terrace, while John plucked the device from the security panel with his left hand (the effort made his fingers hurt; the anaesthetic was wearing off) and they dashed outside.

Sherlock closed the doors and, with a twist of his lockpick, relocked the door. Then he and John flung themselves behind the largest topiary bush and made themselves as small as possible. John was hunkered lowest, gun drawn, face pressed against the large terracotta pot. Sherlock was hunched over him, face against the shrub, peering through the dense green leaves.

And they waited, hardly breathing, to be discovered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Milverton returns home to Appledore unexpectedly - and he has an even more unexpected visitor. Certainly John and Sherlock did not expect her. Hiding on the terrace, they witness the startling end of Charles Augustus Milverton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the idea of this is taken from ACD canon of the Charles Augustus Milverton story. Other parts refer to earlier chapters of the Unkissed series.

 

Milverton went to his desk, opened his briefcase and took out his computer, plugging it in and booting it up.

Then he sauntered to the French doors, took out a key and unlocked them.

John and Sherlock shrank back, holding their breaths, but Milverton only took a moment to look past the rows of bushes, beyond the balustrade to the sea. He peered, as though looking for something, then, with a little hum of satisfaction, he turned back into his office, leaving the doors open.

At his desk, he leaned over the security controller on his desk.

“Mr Wilding.”

“Mr Milverton sir.” Tel’s voice, sounding strained, could just be heard through the open doors, “I wasn’t expecting you back tonight.”

“Clearly. You were not at your post when I arrived.”

“Facility break sir, that’s all. Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I’m expected a visitor shortly, short notice – so be aware that the cameras in the tunnel route will show her arrival. Unless she has come already?”

“No sign yet, sir. The system has been glitching a bit tonight, though. Nothing to be alarmed about, sir,” Tel added hastily, “I suspect it’s the water rats at some of the lower cabling again. I’ve logged the problem at head office and they’ll send someone first thing in the morning.”

Milverton made a peeved sound, then continued in an irritated tone: “This visitor is a little special, Mr Wilding. I’ll want footage of her leaving, if you can.”

“Right, sir. Is that all sir?”

“For now… are you all right?”

“Dicky tummy, Mr Milverton. I’ll be right.”

“Make certain of it.”

“Yes sir.”

“Before you go. Any disturbances this evening?” There was a smirk in Milverton’s tone. He was very aware of the discomfort he was causing his security guard, and enjoying it.

“No sir,” lied Tel, his voice sounding strangled, “It’s been quiet as the grave.”

“Very well. I’ll contact you when she has arrived, and again after she leaves.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Pop off then, Mr Wilding.”

Milverton sat at his desk with a smug grin for a moment. Then he rose and keyed open the door to his inner room. There were the faint sounds of the chair and rug being moved. The first trapdoor opening, then the second.

A woman in dark pants and shirt entered the office, a thick waterproof jacket pulled around her body and a hat and scarf wrapped around her face and throat. Milverton entered the room behind her and closed the door.

“Take a seat,” he said, polite in an oily fashion, and the woman drew herself up very erect.

“I’ll stand,” she said.

Against John’s crouched back, he felt Sherlock shift slightly; tensely. John frowned. There was something about her voice…

“Suit yourself.” Milverton sat at his desk again and keyed the intercom for the security office. There was no reply.

Still in the loo, thought John. Good.

Milverton acted as though it didn’t matter. He stretched back in his seat, hands behind his head, and smiled at his guest in a perfectly odious manner.

“At least remove your hat and scarf,” he said, “I do so hate doing business when I can’t see someone’s face.”

The woman removed her hat. Unwound the scarf. Stood, head held high, glaring at Milverton.

John blinked. Looked again. He must be mistaken, surely. From this angle, the woman was the very image of Eloise Holmes.

Then Sherlock’s tension, pressed along John’s back, was unmistakable.

_Oh fucking Christ. It **was** Eloise Holmes._

“Isn’t that better, Mrs Holmes. May I call you Eloise?”

“You may not,” she said tartly, her nose wrinkled with distaste.

“We shall remain on formal terms then,” Milverton said, his smile unfailing, “Did you bring it?”

Eloise hesitated, then nodded. Milverton held out his hand. She shook her head.

“You may not have it.”

“Then what is the point in you being here at all? If you think you can talk me into being reasonable, I’m afraid you have your man completely wrong, my dear.”

“I will pay you…”

“I don’t want your money, Mrs Holmes. I want your algorithm. I want the code to hack into any security monitoring system I like; any computer or phone I like. I won’t rely so much on those greedy middlemen, then. I will allow people’s own vanity and greed to set them up for a fall. So much more elegant, don’t you agree? What amount of money can you possibly offer me that will compete with that?”

“I can lay my hands on one million pounds immediately,” said Eloise, “And twice as much in a month.”

“When I can make easily ten times that amount with the kind of information your algorithm can obtain for me? I hardly think so.”

Eloise’s head dropped and she put her hand in her coat pocket. She took out a flash drive.

“You will… give me the material you have on my sons,” she said. It was meant to be a demand but sounded more like a plea.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Milverton, folding his hands briefly over his stomach, “And you know, I think not.”

“You offered… you _promised_ …”

“Ah, but what are my promises worth, really? I wish to ensure your ongoing cooperation, Mrs Holmes, and I can’t do that if I relinquish the hold I have. In any case,” and here he smiled like the devil, “Only so much of what I have is in physical evidence after all. A negative of your youngest behaving like a filthy slut.” He shrugged.

John felt Sherlock shudder against him, and reached back with his aching left hand to pat at Sherlock’s leg.

“There’s so much more I can do,” Milverton continued, while Eloise listened, face pale and immobile as stone, “I can let slip about your eldest’s little peccadillo in his younger years with that Iranian spy…”

 

“He didn’t know….”

“That’s hardly going to matter to his superiors now, is it?”

“Mycroft in no way compromised his position or his country,” snapped Eloise heatedly, “My son is not a stupid man.”

“But love, as they say, makes idiots of us all, don’t you think? What he did or did not betray in bed when he was a stripling lad will make not a blind bit of difference to this news, will it?”

Eloise’s mouth pressed shut and she glared.

“It’s not the only piece of data I have on your children, Mrs Holmes. There is Sherlock, and his reputation as being only two steps away from a sociopath, is there not? A little birdy once told me that he was responsible for his father’s death.”

Eloise’s face grew even paler and more drawn. “That is not true.”

“He found the body, didn’t he? His first, I’m told.”

“His father died of an aneurism. Sherlock was just a _boy_.” Then her brows drew together in angry understanding. “Victor Trevor spoke to you.”

“He did indeed. He told me many curious things about your youngest. He’s serving a short prison term right now, but I have assured him an excellent payment for his services.”

Eloise was once more a woman of marble at this news.

John patted Sherlock’s leg, unable to do anything else yet. Sherlock’s forehead pressed against the back of John’s neck briefly, then away.

“And then of course there’s his husband, Doctor Watson,” Milverton continued. Eloise said nothing. “I expect a few rumours of his behaviour towards Afghani boys may take the shine from his war medals, don’t you think?”

“More lies.”

“A well placed lie can do as much harm, or more, than an ugly fact,” stated Milverton with a shrug, “Though an ugly fact can do enough. I can, for example, set several people onto my cook, who has a very dubious past indeed. The people looking for her don't need evidence. They only need her current name and location. It's really very funny.”

“But Dr Watson is not…”

Milverton smiled. “The tabloids don’t much care about substantiation, and even if Watson sues, the damage will be done, don’t you think? No, Mrs Holmes, I can do what I like to your family. I can destroy them. I can certainly _hurt_ them. So I think what you need to do is give me that algorithm and be available for any other little chores I might ask of you.”

Eloise took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. “You keep all of these vile plans in your head. In your…. _mind palace_ ,” she said. “No wonder you are such a sick man.”

Milverton’s lip curled. “Give me the drive.”

Eloise reached out her gloved left hand and dropped the drive she held into Milverton’s outstretched palm. Milverton grasped her wrist, though, and tugged her, stumbling, closer to the table. Then he leaned over and, with the most awful, rapacious grin, kissed the back of her glove.

Opened his mouth and licked over it, to her wrist, licked wetly the thin, sensitive skin, and up her forearm.

Eloise shuddered and tried to draw away, but his grip was too tight. When he finally let go, she recoiled and he relaxed back into his chair, laughing.

“You are marked and mine, Mrs Holmes, and all your filthy spawn too.” Eloise was wiping frantically at her wrist with her scarf.

Sherlock was so tense he was about to charge, John felt sure. He tightened his grip on the gun, feeling that urge strongly himself, but Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder stayed him. He glanced sideways and saw Sherlock’s pale face in the moonlight. He was horrified but there was also something speculative about his expression.

Wait, Sherlock mouthed at him.

So John waited.

Milverton had sat forward in his chair again and had moved the drive to his fingertips.

“Please,” said Eloise, her voice brittle, “Don’t.”

“Oh, I think I’d better,” he said, “I must test that you’ve given me the right code before I let you go.”

He flicked the folded drive open to reveal the plug, and he pushed the drive into the port of his computer, that was itself already jacked into Appledore’s entire security system.

And as he pushed the drive into the socket, he hissed and swore, his hand jerking back at the sudden pain. He glared at the small puncture in his thumb, that had been pressed into the head of the flash drive, and the blood welling up. Automatically, he stuck the injury in his mouth and sucked on it.

Then he saw the look on Eloise Holmes’s face and withdrew his thumb, slowly.

“What have you done?”

“You did it to yourself,” said Eloise coldly, “I asked you not to.”

“What…?” But it came out as ‘Wha…’, Milverton’s tongue already thickening.

“Sit still,” she told him crisply, “Though of course you can’t really do anything else at the moment.”

Milverton’s eyes widened slightly as Eloise circled to his side of the desk. She leaned over his shoulder – and indeed he did not move an inch – and with a gloved finger tapped a few strokes on the keyboard.

“There you go,” she said, stepping away, “The algorithm is hard at work in your own system. It’s already wiped your entire hard drive, and is infecting your home security as I speak. All records from this evening, from the whole day in fact. Soon the whole week and all your archives. Nothing left of footage or reports, unless you’ve had the foresight to store them in an unconnected system, though people are lazy. They don’t isolate their systems sufficiently.”

Milverton tried to speak, but only a grunt emerged.

“You don’t think I gave you my algorithm on surveillance and governance do you?” she asked scathingly, “And surely you don’t believe it’s the only algorithm I invented. I was hacking into security and surveillance systems from the earliest years of digital surveillance, Mr Milverton. Or may I call you _Charles_? Too _informal_?” Her contempt was a palpable thing.

“Mr Milverton, I have been a ghost in the machine for a _long_ time. I am, you may have forgotten, a _genius_ , like my sons. The British Government has my late husband to thank for keeping me… honest.” She smiled tightly at this. “William was a good man. John Watson is very much like him, and if you believe I will allow you to harm him, to harm my sons…”

She loomed over Milverton. “I will not allow you to destroy the happiness they have been able to find. Sherlock will keep his John, and perhaps with your threat gone, Mycroft will learn to trust again, and seek someone of his own.”

She drew away then. “You may be wondering what is happening to you, you filthy creature. The toxin in your system that has paralysed you will complete its work soon. It will reach your heart and your lungs and that will be it. The end will be quite quick, which is more than you deserve. It could be quicker I suppose, I could shoot you, but I don’t think I am that merciful. I am not a good mother, but I love my sons. I love my sons with everything I am and my lack is not a lack of love. My husband taught me that much. He taught me I was capable of that, even though no one else thought it possible.”

“I loved William,” she continued, “And I lost him and I will not let you spread terrible lies that Sherlock caused his death; I will not let you destroy Mycroft, who has worked so hard all his life to be a good man, to do difficult things for the greater good. If I am discovered and tried for this crime of murdering you, I will go gladly to trial. I did one good thing for my sons. I kept them safe from the worst kind of scabrous vulture.”

She was pulling her hat and scarf back on. Milverton was sitting, immobile, at his desk. He wasn’t even blinking, though a tiny pulse raced in his neck. The look she gave him was unforgiving. “It’s hard isn’t it, knowing you’re dying. Knowing you will die loathed and despised. No-one will mourn you, Mr Milverton. Everyone who was touched by your leprous skin will dance on your grave.”

“And if you’re thinking about the few physical pieces of evidence still in your possession,” she said, “I wouldn’t hold out hope of it being any kind of posthumous revenge. Mycroft will send his team here first. They will dismantle this house brick by brick if they have to.”

She leaned over to peer into Milverton’s eyes. “Still there? It won’t be long now. Your shrivelled heart will stop and you’ll breathe no more. And good riddance.”

Eloise Holmes straightened up, wrapped her scarf around her face and carefully plucked the flash drive out of the port. She closed it with equal care and put it into her pocket, then she tapped the code on the door to the inner office and disappeared inside.

*


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Eloise Holmes's confrontation with Milverton, Sherlock shares a few observations with the dying Milverton. And then it's back to Janine and Agnieszka to uphold promises and cover their tracks for the return to Canterbury.

It was several numb moments before John rose cautiously to his feet. He tucked his gun back into his pocket turned and offered a hand to Sherlock – his Sherlock, crouched in the dark, eyes wide as he stared up at John.

Sherlock blinked. John could see shock and disbelief in his expression, but also a kind of gobsmacked wonder. “Why did she do that?” Sherlock asked.

John crouched down again, one gloved hand placed gingerly against Sherlock’s cheek. “By the time we knew what she’d done it was too late,” he said, “Don’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t,” said Sherlock, matter-of-factly, “She saved us.”

John froze for a moment then cautiously, he nodded. “She did.” _From Milverton; from the consequences of Milverton’s vile insinuations and lies; from having to take such a drastic action ourselves._ They could have interrupted much sooner; revealed that they were there as soon as Eloise arrived and stood together against the blackmailer. But they hadn’t. Surprise and alarm had held them still and – John had seen it in Sherlock’s face, had felt it in his own heart – curiosity. Waiting to see what would happen next.

Well, now they knew.

“We have to go, Sherlock,” whispered John, “Before Terry Wilding gets the wind up.”

Sherlock nodded and rose, steadying himself on John’s arm. He picked up the bag of documents he’d stowed in behind them, close to the terrace wall, and they crept towards Milverton’s office and through the open French doors.

Milverton was still sitting motionless at his desk. His skin, sheened in perspiration, was waxy pale, and his eyes were bright. From time to time a thin, wheezy breath sounded, and the pulse in his throat fluttered madly.

John went straight over to him and crouched at his side. His hands were too sore to be much good to him, but he didn’t really need to touch the man to diagnose the outcome.

“There’s nothing I can do for you,” he said quietly, and even with some compassion. There was no need to mock the dying, after all.

On the other side of the desk, Sherlock had also crouched, and he looked across the wooden surface and over the top of the open computer right into Milverton’s eyes.

“I don't know why you contacted her,” said Sherlock with a soft kind of puzzlement, “I wouldn't have thought she could be blackmailed where her children’s welfare was concerned. She never seemed terribly interested in us, growing up.”

Milverton couldn’t blink, but something in those wide open and frightened eyes conveyed confusion.

“Oh, of course, the disguise,” said Sherlock, fingering the straight-haired wig he wore. “You know me as Davey Spratt, if you know about the garden staff at all. I’m Sherlock Holmes, of course. My red-haired companion is John Watson. You know. The man you tried to make hate me.”

The confusion in the glittering eyes morphed again into fear.

“But he doesn’t. You tried to make me filthy in his eyes, and all you did was cover yourself in filth. It’s obvious you don’t know him at all. You made the mistake that I used to make. You thought that love like that was a myth. You think it can’t exist, or that it’s fragile. That it can be easily broken.”

John appeared at Sherlock’s side, and put a stiff hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock glanced up at John, then back at Milverton. “It won’t hurt for you to know this now,” he said to Milverton, “But this isn’t the first time someone has killed to save me. That someone has cared enough to think me worth saving.”

A fine shudder was flickering in Milverton’s throat.

“You underestimate the power of unconditional love. You tried to destroy us and you couldn't. You tried to break John and make him betray me with that photograph and again with those hired thugs, and you failed. You tried to turn Mummy into another of your victims and she became your end instead. Because you fail to understand that some love comes without reservation or fear. I honestly didn't know my mother had that in her. I would have said not. I suppose I owe you something, then. I would never have known otherwise that we mattered to her at all.”

Sherlock looked to John again, who was looking at the dying man, and saw pity in his eyes, even for Milverton. He could almost read John’s thoughts now, wondering – did lack of unconditional love create the monster of Charles Augustus Milverton, or was the lack of love the _result_ of what Milverton was?

Then he saw Milverton s eyes blaze with contempt for John’s pity for just a moment, before the light in his eyes dulled and went out. 

“We need to go,” said John.

“We need to be sure he’s dead,” said Sherlock.

John tried to pull off a glove, but he couldn’t begin to unsheathe his right hand without a hiss of pain. Sherlock did the checking instead – removed a glove and pressed two fingers to Milverton’s wrist and then his throat.

“Dead,” he said in a flat voice.

John said nothing, but his short, sharp nod indicated _Good._

Sherlock pulled his glove back on, picked up the bag of documents and they returned to the inner office. The trapdoor was gaping open.

“Go that way,” said Sherlock, “I’ll cover our tracks here…”

“I’m not going without you.”

“John.”

“No. And we don’t have time to fight it over, so we'll have to think of something else.”

Sherlock sighed.

In Milverton’s office, they could hear the security intercom hiss to life with Tel Wilding’s voice. “Mr Milverton? Are you there sir? Mr Milverton? Has your visitor arrived? Something’s off with the security system, I haven’t got any cameras operating anywhere on the property. Aaaggh, Jesus…” He sounded as if he was in acute pain, which was doubtless the truth, “I don’t feel too good, sir. I’ve called Simon Garfield to replace me for the rest of the shift. He’ll be here in a minute. Do I need to be looking out for your… your vis-visitor… shit. Fuck. Sorry. Gotta… I…” The line went dead as the man went dashing away to the toilet yet again.

“Down,” said Sherlock. At John’s pointed look he added, “I’ll be right behind you.”

John went down the short flight of stairs first, opened the second trapdoor then continued the descent down the second, rougher set of steps to the mouth of the hidden tunnel. Sherlock dropped the bag of documents down too. He checked that the step that had concealed the documents was properly sealed again.

Finally, sitting at the edge of the cavity, he arranged the rug and the back legs of the chair against the trapdoor itself. It wouldn’t be much of a blind, but it might help. The rug itself was thick wool with a canvas back and held its position fairly well. Sherlock slithered his skinny form down, holding onto the legs of the chair until it was no longer possible, then carefully edged the trapdoor closed until he heard the click of the lock snapping shut. He had no way of knowing if the chair and rug would conceal the trapdoor or its recent usage at all. Certainly it wouldn’t do for long, but it might fool Wilding or Garfield long enough to give them a few more minutes.

Either way, the door was down and locked. There would be no going back now. There was no way through again.

Sherlock descended the rest of the way and closed the second trapdoor.

“Come on.” He took John’s wrist in one hand, the bag in the other, and they crept down the long, hand-hewn tunnel towards the sound of the sea.

They emerged on the stairs carved into the side of the low cliff. In the distance they could see what could only have been Eloise Holmes climbing from a small rubber dinghy into a larger boat. The figure in the other boat, assisting her in then pulling up the oars and the dinghy itself, may well have been Mycroft, though of course from this distance it might have been anyone.

The two men made their way cautiously down to the shore, then picked their way northward until they found a way back up to the road. It was early evening, but dark and getting colder, with clouds blowing in. They still wore their disguises, so that was some kind of cover, at least. Sherlock bundled the bag down the front of his overalls, making him look lumpily obese.

John stumbled slightly beside him and Sherlock put a hand on his elbow to steady him.

“Sorry,” muttered John, “The painkillers are wearing off.”

“We’ll be there soon,” Sherlock assured him, sliding an arm around John’s waist to help him up a rough bit of path to the road. He sounded more like himself now.

“You okay?” John asked.

“I’m…” Sherlock tilted his head to one side, considering. “Yes. I think I am.”

They got onto a road and began to walk east and north. It took a while, but eventually they reached the Old Dover Road. Finally, they made their way to a set of holiday cottages positioned back a little way from the road. They located the cottage with the green Fiat parked outside and Sherlock knocked on the door.

The door opened and he and John strode in as, outside, rain began to fall.

Janine poured glasses of scotch while Agnieszka rummaged in the bags she’d retrieved from the van – now parked in a huge supermarket car park in Dover, where it would sit for weeks before anyone took notice of it, though with luck it would be stolen long before then. She handed the first aid kit to Sherlock, who was using a pair of scissors to cut the gloves from John’s hands.

“I’m all right…”

“Shh,” said Sherlock. He finished cutting the leather away and took the syringe from the first aid box. “We’ll do another local now,” he said, “Until we’re back in Canterbury.”

John nodded, his face nearly grey with exhaustion and pain. He looked better after Sherlock had finished, though still hidden under his disguise, as was Sherlock. Sherlock changed the dressings on John’s hands, a little swollen again now, and re-wrapped them in visible bandages.

“Did you get it?” demanded Agnieszka.

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock, “Get the fire started.”

Janine set herself to that task, building up kindling in the fireplace of their cottage and fetching extra wood from the basket under shelter outside.

Sherlock pulled the bag of documents from under the overalls and left it by the hearth. When Agnieszka, eyes lit up with curiosity, she reached into it, he barked a sharp, “No!” at her.

“Give me what I want, then,” she demanded.

Sherlock pulled the flash drive marked AGRA from his pocket and gave it to her.

Agnieszka stared at it for a long moment and then, with grave solemnity, handed it to Janine.

“There it is,” she said, “Everything about my past.”

Janine took the drive, turned it over in her hands. Then she placed it on the stone hearth and smashed it to bits with the poker.

“I don’t need to know about your past, pet. I know who you are now. That’s enough for me.” Tears stood out in her eyes, and in Agnieszka’s too.

Sherlock took the negative out of his pocket too, and without needing to look at John, threw it on the growing fire. It flared and burned and was gone in seconds.

For a little while, that’s all the four of them did – feed papers and photographs and negatives carefully into the blazing hearth, ensuring every shred of every item was ash. The hard drives were first rubbed against a magnet that Agnieszka had brought with her, then each smashed gleefully to pieces by Janine with the poker and pushed into the flames.

John held his scotch glass awkwardly to take small sips, until Sherlock perched on the arm of his chair and helped to hold the glass.

“Not long now,” he promised.

“You sure you’re okay?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled a little. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“What happened?” Janine asked.

John wasn’t inclined to say, but Sherlock shared the bare bones of it. “Milverton came back unexpectedly. He had a visitor. Another victim. Only they weren’t so much a victim as an agent of retribution. Milverton’s dead.”

Agnieszka looked like she could have kissed him. “Dead? You swear it?”

“Dead,” confirmed John, “It’ll probably be in the news tomorrow.”

“You weren’t seen?”

“No,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And you don’t know who his visitor was?”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Shame,” said Janine, “I’d like to have sent a thank you card.”

Agnieszka levelled a hard gaze on Sherlock, then. “And how about your promise now, Holmes? New identities, you said.”

Sherlock reached into his overalls again and withdrew two thick envelopes he had kept in the inside pocket all this time.

The one marked Eva Bracken he handed to Janine Nevin. It contained a birth certificate, passport, drivers licence, a cashcard. Everything she needed to become someone new.

Almost identical documents were in the envelope marked Mary Morstan, which he handed to Agnieszka. The woman was poring over the documents with an experienced eye.

“They’ll hold up under the harshest scrutiny,” said Sherlock, “they were produced by the best.”

The best being Mycroft Holmes, who had worked within the limitations Milverton had made for him, and then beyond, it seemed, to see this business successfully concluded.

Agnieszka nodded. “Yes. Of course. Good.” Her gaze at him was direct, unflinching and full of deep gratitude that words could not convey. “Thank you.”

When all the documents and pieces of broken flash drive had been fed into the fire and raked over and over to ensure all was nothing but ash and burnt plastic and metal, Agnieszka swept the remains into the bag that had contained all the documents.

“Right, then,” she said, “Off we go. I’ll be back in an hour, Jan… Eva.” She leant over to kiss her girl.

“Soon… Mary.” Janine smiled crookedly at her. “I’ll make supper.”

Then Sherlock and John and the bag of ashes got into the Fiat, and the newly baptised Mary Morstan cut up north to the A2, bypassing Dover, and a back way over the A28 to Tyler Hill. They detoured briefly to the Great Stour river so they could scatter the ashes and burnt flash drives in the water. Sherlock peeled off the prosthetics on his face, shredded them and scattered those in the river too, along with John’s fake teeth and the broken SIM card from the Davey Spratt phone, which had already been reset to factory defaults, smashed between two rocks and thrown downstream.

By the time the Fiat got to Honey Wood, the rain had stopped and John and Sherlock had been transformed into their own selves again. Billy and Mag the Rag were waiting to meet them with the London car. Mary stayed in the Fiat, windows up, while Sherlock and John walked over to the Zipcar.

“All good, guv?” asked Mag.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “Everything go smoothly in Whitstable?”

“Like a dream,” said Billy.

“Billy hand fed me chips and all,” grinned Mags, “He even washed his hands first. It was grand.”

“Here are your tickets,” Sherlock pressed cash into Billy’s hand, “It’s a forty minute walk to Canterbury West station. You’ve plenty of time.”

Billy and Mags pulled off their disguises. The coats they handed back to their owners, the rest they left bundled in a bag in the Zipcar. They pretended not to notice the Fiat, but bickered cheerfully as they began their walk down St Stephen’s Road.

When they’d gone, Mary Morstan wound down the Fiat’s window. She passed Sherlock a bundle of overalls and wigs. “Good luck,” she said, “And no offence, but I hope I never see you again.”

“Likewise,” Sherlock replied.

The Fiat drove off. Sherlock put the bundle, along with the remnants of the others’ disguises, well under the passenger seat and out of view.

He helped John into his seat and fastened the buckle of the seatbelt for him, then began the short drive back to their hotel (The overalls and wigs would be scattered later, in worksite skips between Canterbury and London. A text to Mycroft would ensure that the final incriminating evidence would be collected once Sherlock had sent the coordinates for each drop point.)

Finally, wrung out and a long way from their usual post-case high, Sherlock helped John out of the car and into the hotel foyer. The receptionist asked about their day. Sherlock said they’d had a lovely time, sitting on the beach; resting up.

“Bit tired now, though,” said John, and there was no doubt of it when the receptionist looked at him.

“You don’t look well,” she said.

“Damned hands hurt a bit,” he said, lifting them helplessly, “But still. We had a good time, didn’t we sweetheart?”

Sherlock kissed his cheek. “Yes, we did. Now. Up to bed with you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have covered their tracks and returned to their Canterbury hotel - exhausted and shocked by the evening's events. Their reactions once they are safe are not necessarily appropriate... but at least they can be inappropriate together.

In their hotel room, John sagged onto the edge of the bed and stared at the array of complementary chocolates on the table as though they were alien things. A note with them said the room fridge contained chilled champagne. "Enjoy your stay," the note ended.

"John."

John blinked stupidly at Sherlock then shook his head, coming back to himself. "Sorry sweetpea."

"Bath," said Sherlock.

"Of course." John rose but then had to wait while Sherlock unfastened buttons and zippers for him. It took longer than expected. Sherlock’s fingers shook from time to time.

"Sweetheart," said John softly, "Honeybee. It's okay. It can wait."

"No," murmured Sherlock, stopping to kiss John's temple and his cheek, "I want... I want to..."

"Shh, baby. It's all right."

"I know it's all right," said Sherlock with a ghost of the old waspishness, "but I want to do this. It will be good for you."

John couldn't argue with that. When they were both finally stripped naked, Sherlock helped John into the bubble bath he'd run, then lowered himself into the water behind him. He pulled John against his chest and John leaned willingly into his embrace.

"Sherlock..."

"It's all right John. It's over now."

"With Milverton, perhaps, but your mother..."

"My mother..." Sherlock sighed but it was far from an unhappy sound. "Mummy will be fine."

John was very still in his arms, but then he nodded and sank further into Sherlock's hold.

"I should be horrified but I'll admit I'm somewhat relieved," said John, "and it's impossible to feel sorry for Milverton. I just hope Eloise will be all right."

"Mycroft will see to her."

They stopped speaking for a moment, perhaps reflecting on those hints of an old, ill-advised love that had left Mycroft resolutely untrusting of relationships and determinedly alone for so long.

"We are not very nice people, sometimes,” said John. He sighed. "But Milverton was definitely not a very nice man."

"Definitely not." Another long pause and then Sherlock said, "Mummy approves of you. She did it to protect you too." He kissed John's neck on the side opposite the burn and then sluiced water over John’s chest and stomach. He patted John’s stomach then. "You haven't eaten."

"Not hungry, sweetpea."

Sherlock kissed his neck again. He rubbed a sponge down John's arms, which were propped up on the edges of the bath to keep the bandages dry.

John sighed, a happier sound, and wriggled a little before stilling.

"Sorry."

"It's all right." Sherlock swished water around, making little foam castles eddy around the surface of the water, creating waves against John's stomach and thighs.

"John."

"Yes, precious?"

"I want..." Then he fell silent.

"Tell me, sweetheart."

"No. It's not appropriate."

John was very aware that Sherlock had an erection, pressing against the top of John's backside and his lower back. "It's a post stress reaction, Sherlock. It’s happened before. We don't have to..."

"I want to," said Sherlock, "but it's not appropriate."

"I understand, sweetling. Seeing your mother..."

"Not that," said Sherlock, "I mean you. You're in pain. You're hurt."

"Oh."

"It's fine,” said Sherlock, dismissing the want, or the need to do anything about it, “It’s not nec..."

"If you shift that tower of foam down there you'll find out exactly how inappropriate I am myself right now."

Sherlock, with an air of excited curiosity, pushed the bubbles aside to reveal the crown of Johns cock rising just above the waterline.

"Like a periscope," remarked Sherlock.

John snorted a laugh and began to giggle. "Christ. Sweetheart. We are _so_ inappropriate."

"We are alive and safe," said Sherlock, nuzzling John's neck and rubbing John's skin - chest to stomach then down, over his erection. John moaned and bucked a little, sloshing water. "We won," Sherlock said.

"You were amazing," murmured John, "Every step of the plan."

"And you," said Sherlock, lightly stroking John’s prick so that it swelled further above the waterline, "And you wouldn't leave."

"Never leaving you behind, bumblebear. Never ever. God yes, that's good."

Sherlock stroked him twice more then pushed his own erection against John's soap-slick skin. "Bed.”

Sherlock stood up, water streaming from his limbs, then helped John out of the tub. They kissed while standing on the bathmat, both of Sherlock hands wrapped around John's backside and holding him close. John couldn't use his hands, but his arms were around Sherlock, and he kissed and mouthed that beloved skin, sucking and licking at the clinging moisture.

"Tell me what you want, gumdrop. Lollipop. My sweet treasure. Tell me."

“You, John.”

“You have me, Honeybee. Always.”

Sherlock rubbed John roughly dry and swiped a towel over his own limbs, before taking John by the wrist and guiding him to the bedroom. "Here."

He helped John to sit with his back to the headboard, then straddled John's lap. "Is this all right?"

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and kissed his chest and throat. “You’re lovely," he murmured.

"John," Sherlock said, hushed and wanting and a little frustrated. He'd half thought of being here, in John's lap, while John wrapped a hand around his cock, and obviously that couldn't happen. But he didn't want it to be his own hand this time. He wanted John. John's skin and his heat and... "John, I want, I..."

"Come here baby," John urged Sherlock closer with wrists pressed to Sherlock's lower back, "That's it. Right up close. God yes. There. How's that?"

Sherlock's erection was nudged up against John's stomach, and with another wriggle he got still closer, his cock now pressed between both their bellies.

"That's it, beautiful. That's good… is that good?" John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes, checking, as always.

"Yes, that's good," Sherlock sighed with contentment, and he pushed his hips experimentally, bumping his cock over John’s navel and along his skin. Pre-come beaded and spilled from his slit and he took a moment to rub his prick against John, smearing the fluid around, making the surface more slippery. The slicker their skin became, the easier it was to move. Finally, Sherlock slid both of his arms around John’s shoulders and snugged his hips up tight over John’s. He mouthed at John’s ear, licked and breathed and kissed while he moved, cock leaking and sliding and getting hotter, thicker, harder…

"That's it, firefly. Rub up against me. That. Yeah. Oh yes. That's nice, isn't it? Push right up, that's it..."

Sherlock clung to John, rolling his hips, feeling his cock slip in the increasingly slick space. "John."

"Hard as you like, gorgeous. That's my beautiful boy. Rub yourself on me, yes, come on, yes baby. Sweetling, yes, let go, little bug."

Sherlock rose a little in his knees, pushing into the yielding, welcoming mound of John's stomach, while John's arms circled him, and between sweet names and encouragements he made perfect little breathless sounds. His own erection bumped lightly against Sherlock's moving arse, and John whimpered a little each time. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's chest once or twice, then threw his had back again, trying to keep the points of contact few and predictable, the way Sherlock liked it.

Sherlock rolled his hips harder into the wonderful friction and John arched his back a little, pushing his belly slightly into the motion. Sherlock rocked harder against him, holding tight to John's shoulders until suddenly he cried out hoarsely and ground himself closer, harder, coming all over their stomachs and chest and smearing stickiness all over them both.

Panting, he stopped and scooted backward on John's lap, drawing in huge gulps of air. John was panting and grinning. "Beautiful boy," he said, gazing adoringly up into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock kissed him, softly, then deeply, then reached down between them to wrap one hand around John’s erection. He pulled slowly and John groaned and bucked.

"Won't take long, honeybee."

Sherlock bumped his nose against John's. "Put your hands on my shoulders," he said, "rest them."

John did as he was asked and when Sherlock told him to, he spread his legs a little wider. Then Sherlock gently brushed his cheeks over John’s wrists, each in turn, and stroked John's thick and straining cock with little flicks of his thumb over the crown, until John, with a stuttering whimper and then a cry, came hard, adding to the mess already swirled through his stomach hair.

John sighed, all tension gone, a beatific smile gentling his mouth. Sherlock kissed him, then again. John lifted his face upward, and Sherlock peppered little kisses all over his face.

“It’s over, baby,” said John, and the relief was palpable, and the love, too.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, kissing him again, across his cheeks and nose, over each eye, “You were right. We are stronger together. I couldn’t have done this alone.”

“Honeybee,” murmured John, “Little petal. Sunny sunbeam. _Habibi_. Love you.”

“Love you,” echoed Sherlock, with more kisses, this time down John’s neck on the uninjured side, and over his shoulders.

After a little while, Sherlock disappeared briefly into the bathroom, returning with a damp towel to clean them both up. He pitched the towel back into the bathtub then he lay down beside John in the bed. He wriggled down the mattress to kissed John’s shoulder, elbow, ribs and hip.

Sherlock’s mind was buzzing around the image of his mother standing over the dying Milverton - an enemy more insidious and far crueller than even Moriarty had been. In an abstract way he thought he ought not be so satisfied by the memory, but he couldn't help perceiving it as self defence as well as just desserts. The mental image was, in fact, highlighted and enhanced by several related thoughts.

_She only killed once Milverton rejected the possibility of any other solution._

_What she did, she did to protect John as well as Mycroft and me._

_We matter to her after all._

_We matter, and we are free._

Sherlock was aware of John carding his fingers gently through his curls.

"You okay honeybee? Really?"

"Yes, John. Really."

"Good."

And then John's stomach rumbled.

Sherlock blew a gentle raspberry against John's thigh. "You are a man of base impulses," he accused affectionately.

"No I'm not," John protested feebly, "Mostly I need... What's that poem? _A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness._ "

"We have chocolate and champagne."

"And there's my little minnow, beside me in the boutique hotel."

"And behold, my Fluffbundle."

John giggled.

Sherlock called down for room service, which the hotel didn’t offer, but the proprietor seemed to have a soft spot for them and arranged to bring up a meal from the fish and chipper down the street. Sherlock spent the evening hand feeding John fish and chips, little chocolates and tiny sips of champagne.

And it was, as Mag the Rag had already noted, _grand_.


End file.
